DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
In another world, he likely would’ve been chastised too – instructors looming before them, snarling, told not to waste ammunition, to folly, to fool around with weaponry. Ordinarily, he might have adhered to the notions, to lectures instilled after one too many daring adventures, but the concepts of LongNight dragged through shoulders, of traumas and tragedies marred at every god damned turn, had left them with fewer and fewer opportunities for relief, for mischief, for a way to drag themselves out of the murk. This was his machination, his creation, and he knew it well, could supply the stones, the tools, the incantations simply by the curl of his enchantments. There was no loss here except in time, and even that wasn’t so fettered away in predilections, calculations, or practice.
It had caught Morgan’s amusements and musings nonetheless, earning her an arched brow in her considerations. “I have only made this one so far.” There hadn’t been a real need for it, and it had been on boyish, juvenile pursuits, rather than requirements. But in the coming days of whatever was to follow, perhaps there would be more dotting the horizon, flailing and flying at the latest threat. “Halo does not have any?” With the way the landscape was set up, last he’d known, it might’ve made an ideal location for such an armament – capable of seeing anyone, anything, arriving for miles. Toppling towers. Sieging.
He watched, waited, for her to pull the lever, presuming upcoming destruction upon the targets to unfurl, but the conversation continued instead, and he leaned an elbow on a portion of the machine that wouldn’t maneuver. Mountains a deterrent was something that took him straight back to the Basin, a strange homesick notion reeling through his mind, the memories of narrow passes, of no one ever being able to invade them, of the power and prestige amongst and amidst the summits. Gone now too, eroded in shadow.
So the monolith nodded, back into the flattened landscape of the training grounds, listening to notions of the Ascended. “No. It sounded as though the monsters were some of the Voice’s first attempts. I have not seen anything like it in current Ascended.”
It had caught Morgan’s amusements and musings nonetheless, earning her an arched brow in her considerations. “I have only made this one so far.” There hadn’t been a real need for it, and it had been on boyish, juvenile pursuits, rather than requirements. But in the coming days of whatever was to follow, perhaps there would be more dotting the horizon, flailing and flying at the latest threat. “Halo does not have any?” With the way the landscape was set up, last he’d known, it might’ve made an ideal location for such an armament – capable of seeing anyone, anything, arriving for miles. Toppling towers. Sieging.
He watched, waited, for her to pull the lever, presuming upcoming destruction upon the targets to unfurl, but the conversation continued instead, and he leaned an elbow on a portion of the machine that wouldn’t maneuver. Mountains a deterrent was something that took him straight back to the Basin, a strange homesick notion reeling through his mind, the memories of narrow passes, of no one ever being able to invade them, of the power and prestige amongst and amidst the summits. Gone now too, eroded in shadow.
So the monolith nodded, back into the flattened landscape of the training grounds, listening to notions of the Ascended. “No. It sounded as though the monsters were some of the Voice’s first attempts. I have not seen anything like it in current Ascended.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
